Date: Tue, 17 Apr 2001 16:16:12 From: Ganymede Subject: '69' part 1 '69' by Ganymede WARNING: This story contains a graphic description of sexual acts between a man and a MINOR boy. I do not condone child abuse, how- ever boy-love as described in this story is an entirely different matter. If the subject of man/boy sex offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not read further! You have been warned! Read at your own risk! Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Feel free to post it to appropriate newsgroups or send it to your friends. The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. It cannot be placed in archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed in any form that requires payment. THE NIFTY ARCHIVE: The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to provide support. FINAL WARNING: If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin! '69' by Ganymede Chapter 1. June 24th 1999 Five miles outside Daytona I pulled off the freeway. I was getting tired of the Firebird's exhaust and the whistle of wind through the soft-top. I needed something to eat and a bathroom break. There were a few restaurants to chose from. Instead of following habit and going for a hamburger and coffee, I chose the Subway in the nearest gas station. God only knows why I did. It was totally out of character. Never before had I been interested in counting cal- ories or watching my intake of saturated fats. That's where I saw him the first time. Of course, I didn't know his name was Tyler Kincaid, or that he was ten years old, or that he was the hottest thing since we stuck a four-barrel Holley on a bored-out Chevy V-8 and got the compression up to 12 to 1, yet he still made an impression on me. He was wearing a Nascar tee shirt emblazoned with "Gordon Jeffries", "Duraflex", and "3" for his third win of the Winston Cup. It really wasn't that surprising when I thought about it. Just about kid who lived south of the Mason-Dixon line, and a lot who lived north of it, thought Gordon Jeffries was the best. Hell, Jeffries had just tied Richard Petty's modern-era record with thir- teen wins for the season. I would have been lucky to actually fin- ish thirteen races in an entire season. Maybe it was the car I was driving. Jeffries's supercharged Henderson Motorsports Monte Carlo was unstoppable. Maybe it was skill. Maybe he was just plain lucky. Maybe it was Jay Everingham's expertise guiding him. Whatever it was, he had all the cards in the deck. Jeffries was a winner. He had always been a winner. He was twenty eight years old and the best looking driver in Nascar. His wife, Kristi, was auburn-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, at least every one said she was. Frankly, I wasn't much interested in women. When Gordon was eleven, he won the national championship for quarter-midgets for the second time, or maybe it was the third fucking time because I lost count. Back then, I was twenty-four and infatuated with the dark-haired boy I watched though a pair of binoculars. He had all of three horsepower at his disposal and he knew how to use every one. It was like his three horses were race horses. He was a short, skinny kid, but he was so confident that he could have been in his late teens. I could still remember the smile on his face when he climbed onto the victory platform, his right arm lifted up like he had just won the Monaco grand Prix. He knew he was number one, and he was only eleven. I got an erection just thinking about what my little preteen hero wore under his blue and white race-suit. And yes, there was a neat little bulge right where it was supposed to be. He was all boy. I drooled over him, cut out his picture from the local paper, and shot my loads until it was hard to see his face through the spots. For the next few weeks, that memory was never out of my thoughts. The last time I had seen him was in Atlanta. He went past me like I was standing still, which I was at the time. The Cracker- barrel 500 was on March 14th. That was the race where I was hold- ing my own in 20th place until I blew a rear tire in the back straight and took out the front end of my car. That little episode cost me over five grand and the next two races. However, I'm getting away from the story, or at least how it started. I pulled through the gas station and parked next to a pickup. Actually I parked a bit closer that I intended, but I could still open my door. I didn't care if the people already parked there could get back in or not. It was hot, even for midday June in central Florida. I sauntered across the parking lot. I was a dozen paces from the Subway when he came out. My first thought was that he was `cute'. He looked like a track-rat. He was a bit on the rough side with stained sneakers, grease-spotted, frayed blue-jeans cut off a few inches above the knees, and his Jeff-Gor- don fan shirt. As I approached, he raised his eyes and looked directly at me. `Cute' immediately changed to `drop-dead gor- geous'. He had blue eyes. Not `blue', but `BLUE', like the clear middle-of-the-day sky overhead. He was dirty-blond and he needed a hair-cut. Actually, he needed more than a haircut. His hair came to his shoulders and hung below his eyebrows. He also needed a bath. For the next few seconds he continued to stare me down. I was also looking right at him, until I was only a few feet away. "You like 'im?" I said abruptly. "Huh? Who?" he said. He had a high-pitched southern drawl that told me his voice was still a long way from breaking. Up close, he even looked like a prepubertal boy, still soft on the edges and smooth like a girl. "Jeffries." "He's real cool!" "Yeah, he's cool all right," I said as I passed. I opened the screen door that led into the gas-station-Sub- way store. I spoke over my shoulder for no other reason than I wanted to tell him what I thought of Jeffries. God only knows why I said what I did "The mother's married, y' know." I could feel the boy glaring at my back, wondering what on earth I was talking about. I smiled, imagining the boy's conster- nation if he had any idea that I had just changed my opinion of him from `cute' to "drop-dead gorgeous" to include `pretty darned sexy.' "What's him bein' married got to do with it?" I heard him ask. I stopped and slowly turned around. I didn't want him to think that he was interrupting me. I shrugged. "Nuthin',... Everythin',... Depends, don't it? Whatcha momma gonna think?" "You're weird, man, you know that?" he squeaked awkwardly. I smiled again and shrugged, casually lowering my gaze to his groin. His crotch was a compact `v' crease with not much under- neath shape showing. It was just enough to show he was either male, or had the start of the biggest pussy in the county. At about the same age and size, Gordon Jeffries probably had substan- tially more between his legs. Unfortunately, there was only so much that I had been able to see with a pair of 7x50 binoculars. I had to fill in the details with an imagination of a horny twenty- four-year-old who was to scared to do anything about it. "Weird sucks," I said absently. "I'll agree with you on one thing. I'm different, kid. Most people get either used to me sooner or later, or they take a hike." He grinned and shook his head in disbelief. I wanted to say something to take the smile off his pretty face. He looked so con- fident standing there, like a little Gordon Jeffries after winning his umpteenth race. So proud and innocent. So fucking beautiful it took my breath away. The sun made his tousled hair glisten. He was Florida-tanned and slender, and when he breathed his little nos- trils flared out like the air was too hot to breath, which it was. His forehead and the bridge of his nose were spotted with tiny beads of perspiration and a few tiny freckles. He looked like he had been running, or having hard sex. There was no denying the thought foremost in my mind. I wanted to have sex with him. His lips were well-shaped and red, a bit too much like a Saturday- night hooker to pass unnoticed. When he kissed, you were either going to get tongued or get your face slapped. I winked right at him, instead of blowing him a kiss, my choice. "Yer still weird," he retorted with an impudent grin. "You're sassin' me, boy?" I laughed. "I don't take no sassin', not from bratty little boys. Even if they are movie-star cute." His eyes sparkled and he backed away, visibly appreciating the 'movie-star' comment, but preparing to run if I reached towards him. "Weird, weird, weird," he chortled. "Man, you are so crazy." "Listen Ace, I don't get in your way, you don't get in mine. Don't annoy me when I'm hungry." "Whydaya call me Ace fer," he demanded. "'cause of tha' there three. Ace is three times, kid. Do any- thing three times and you're an ace." "Oh, ya mean ma shirt?" he asked proudly. "'cause of tha '3' on it?" "Ya' haven't had that little pokey of yours in three girls, have ya Stud?" He giggled, glanced down sheepishly. When he looked up his eyes were bright with amusement. "Yeah, right. Like a kid my age has sex with girls?" "No!" I grinned at him, pretending surprise. "I guess not. Not with pussy anyway. Then it's gotta be 'cause you got yerself a three-inch dick down there." He smirked, enjoying my crudeness with more pleasure than the vast majority of preteen boys, but right up there with a few track-rats I had known over the years. "How do you know how big it is?" he giggled softly. "It's smaller?" I enjoyed taking his ego apart. "No! Hell no!" he added for emphasis. "Ain't no bigger but, now is it?" I countered. "How do you know?" he shot back. "Go figure, Stud. If you must know, it's related to the size of your thumb," I teased. He was fooled, but only for an instant. It took that long for him to glance at his right hand. His thumb was only about two inches long. He looked up again, grinning. He was thinking of what to say when I ended the conversation by turning away. He was still giggling when I entered the store to order my 400 calorie turkey- and-cheese sandwich and diet coke. I was doing my best to lose weight. By the time I came out again, he had disappeared. For the rest of that day all I could think of was the little crease between his thighs, his bashful smile, and the sweat on his fore- head. I didn't see him again until race day. It was strange how it happened. I pulled out of the Pepsi 400 with an overheating engine, blowing a continuous cloud of white smoke that boded nothing but hell for a twenty-grand short block. I was in a mood fit to be tied. The last thing I needed to do was ruin an engine. I had been going faster than I had for the entire year, so my mood was grim. On the previous day, I had an unsuccessful meeting with some potential sponsors. For some reason, nobody wanted to support a loser, despite the fact that I was a good driver. Even my car, a two-year-old Pontiac, had a chance of winning if I could ever finish a race. What I needed was money for a decent pit-crew, spare parts, a couple of factory-reworked engines, and a team manager who could drag my operation out of the fiscal mess it was in. Unless things changed, my racing days were fast drawing to a close. I had a few thousand in the bank, not much considering what I had inherited from my grandfather. It was remarkably easy to spend $790,000 in two years. I should have kept my share of Papaw's trucking business and drove eighteen wheelers across the country. The problem, as it turned out was a leaking radiator hose that sent a spray of water over red-hot exhaust pipes. It really was not all that surprising considering the temperature was in the low 90s that day. What was surprising was how much super-heated steam looks like white smoke. "Fuck it!" I swore. I slammed the hood down only a moment after Bobbie Gerdsen pulled his hands away. He was a moment too soon. "You should'ha tightened the fuckin' hose clip properly. You're fired, you dumb ass-hole," I bellowed. My ex-mechanic glared back at me. I fired Bobbie about once a month. However, the fact was that he was better than most mechan- ics on the Nascar circuit. He was simply trying to do too much with too little. "It's not the fuckin' hoseclip. Look! The mother fucker hose got scorched there, y'see. I warned ya' 'bout it. It's fuckin' got a big spit on the underside. The hose is too fuckin' old. We should'a replaced it weeks ago. I done warned ya' 'bout them hoses, Terry. They all gotta be done. That's where the fuckin' water is comin' from. It woulda' pissed out right over yer exhaust manifold when it was pressured up. I'll go see if I can borrow one from another crew if ya want." "It ain't fucking worth the trouble," I said angrily. "Tha hell it ain't. They got a yellow out there." He was right. The cars had slowed to a crawl and some were beginning to come into the pits for gas and tire changes. We would lose some time, but it was not a complete disaster. As Bobbie took off towards the next pit, I knelt down on my hands and knees and tried to peer underneath just to make sure he was right. With only a few inches of clearance I couldn't see very much. I wanted to scream 'FUCK' at the top of my lungs. I saw a pair of sneakers. Dirty sneakers. No socks. Laces bedraggled and undone, one drag- ging in the dust. Sneakers that had a brief but very hard life. Small, boy-sized sneakers. Sneakers I had seen before. "Fuck," I said under my breath. There was no doubt. There were thin ankles coming out of the sneakers. Bony boy ankles. Ankles with a layer of grime, suggest- ing feet that needed a bath. Ankles that should not have been in the pits. And then I remembered his voice. Not broken but scratchy, a long way from being husky. His voice was incredibly sexy, like his face, like his entire body. Hurriedly, I clambered back up, still not believing my eyes even though my heart was pounding like I was leading the pack through the S-curves. He smiled when I stood up. Same kid, different haircut. He had a close-cropped cut. The only sign of the rat's nest he had before was a six-inch rat's tail down the back. He wore another shirt, newer, yet still stained with spots of oil. This time his shirt was emblazoned with '69', my number, and a name 'Terry Atkins', my name. "Hi Ace!" I said. He grinned the same infectious grin that said he enjoyed life. His eyes sparkled with an intensity that said there was a real brain thinking real thoughts inside his head. My eyes dropped instantly. He wore what appeared to be the same cut-offs with frayed legs. The little crease in the crotch was still there, this time accentuated by a smear of something that was probably grease. He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine, his eyebrows so thin they were almost nonexistent. His eyes asked 'why'. I held up three fingers and his smile continued, maybe even started turning into a grin before he stopped himself. He stared at me while he tried to think of an appropriate response. After a few seconds of silence, he held up his hand, holding his thumb down. I counted four fingers even before I realized what he was saying. I barely noticed my team jacking the car up to change tires. "In yer dreams," I laughed. "Not even on a good day, kid. Maybe in a year or two when you start growing. Yer gonna have to wait for puberty for anything that big. That, and your thumbs will have to grow longer first," I teased relentlessly. "The size of a guy's thumb ain't got nuthin' to do with the size of it," he retorted, still grinning, eyes sparkling with more life that he knew what to do with. "What happened? Whydya pull out for, Terry?" "Fuckin' burst a goddamn water hose," I grunted. I smiled, very conscious that I had just cussed in front of a kid. He didn't seem to mind. "I was hopin' you wain't out of the race?" he asked uncer- tainly. His voice grated against my ears. It was accented, both innocent and full of lust. The southern twang was strong. His eyes flashed and he stepped closer, leaned forward and peered into the engine bay. Steam was still flowing over the hot exhaust pipes, sizzling as more green fluid continued to leak out despite the loss of pressure. "Maybe. Don't know yet. My pit-crew is trying to round one up." "You goin' back in then, Terry?" "Maybe," I repeated. "I like yer shirt, Stud." Stud grinned finally. "I got it fer you. I didn't recognize ya at the store." I shrugged. "You gotta win races to be recognized." "I seen ya picture on the Pepsi website." I nodded, trying to decide whether he had the most beautiful set of lips I had ever seen. Then, I realized I was staring at him. Not that he seemed to mind. He stared tight back at me with those midday-sky eyes of his. "You ain't married neither," Stud announced with a knowing smirk. I didn't have the chance to find out how he had discovered that important piece of information, or even why he thought it was important. At that moment I heard Bobbie's shout. "Git it the hell off!" He came back running, or as rather trotting as fast as an 250 pound man can go. Above his head he wielded a length of curved black pipe. Trevor and Pete had been lounging by the side of the car after refilling the gas tank and changing the tires. Now they sprang into action. By the time Bobbie had reached them, the old pipe was removed. I did not need to tell them to hurry. I had enough experience to know that I had less than twenty seconds before I was back in the race. I slid back into my seat, slamming the harness buckles back into place with reassuring clicks. Sec- onds ticked past. From the side I could see the boy. He was still grinning, more enthusiastically than seemed possible. Those bright blue eyes flashing eagerly, showing interest in everything around him, sucking up life experiences like a Hoover. Vaguely, I wondered how he had been to get past the track guards and into the pit area. Instinctively, my fingers turned the ignition key, cranking the heated engine back to life. I heard it fire. Stop! I mouthed the word 'fuck'. Still cranking. Firing on less than a full com- plement of cylinders. Must have flooded a couple. 'Damn! Fucking hell!'. Then, roaring back to a blood-pounding scream as the engine revs increased. The tachometer lifted past eight thousand, dropped down to four. A moment later the hood slammed down. My foot came off the clutch even as I found first gear. Through the carbon fiber and foam padding of my helmet I could hear the screech of rubber. He waved exuberantly. I don't know what got into me that afternoon. I drove better than ever before. The burst radiator hose had cost me nearly a lap and half. Jeffries was two laps and three hundred yards ahead of me, yet I held the time difference for the next few laps. He was still three hundred yards ahead when we hurtled down the straight. How- ever, Jeffries was pulling away, increasing his lead over the rest of the field by one or two seconds every lap. After ten laps I had moved from last place to second last. There were twenty-eight cars in front of me. As Jeffries ducked and weaved past a group of four cars, I followed him. I counted the places I picked up. On pit- row, I saw Bobbie give me the thumbs-up sign, the boy beside him. He had his tee-shirt off, making it into a flag and waving furi- ously. It struck me that he was my one and only true fan. He was somewhere between brown and gold. I made my mind up then. I knew I wasn't going to win, but I was going to do my best to get a place. With thirty laps left, that meant going around the circuit two seconds faster than Gor- don, and doing it consistently. It took all my concentration and everything the car had to give. I kept it in the gears as long as I could, waiting until the tachometer needle was nearly out of the red zone before I changed. At the end of the straight, it took all the prayers I could remember as I slammed the brakes hard. Even with forty-six inches of rubber on the road, the car still con- tinued on. "Fuckin' understeerin' piece-of-goddamn-shit!" I cursed aloud as the tail of the car slid sideways. I twitched the wheel, nearly over-correcting. We had spent a god-awful amount of money trying to solve the handling problems, but without a factory engineer in the pits it was a matter of trial and error, mostly error. Then, with the engine reaching a banshee wail, I accelerated at full throttle pulling up nearly two car lengths before I had to back off again. Into the S-bends, breaking synchro-crashes each time I changed gear, the stench of burning rubber and racing oil filling the cabin until breathing became unpleasant despite the wind that buffeted through the lat- ticed side windows. It had to be a dream. Through the bends and down the back straight I held the few lengths I had gained, seemingly even cut a few more yards off Jeffries' lead. hard on the brakes, lining up the corner at the top of the main straight, letting the car slew slightly in a controlled drift as I slid back into third gear. The tachometer came right through the red and out the other side when the scream peaked. The gap narrowed, one foot at a time, closer and closer, until I was near enough to nudge his ass if he backed off. The extra muscle of Jeffries' car was inevitable and I dropped back a car length or two when he changed gear. But I was still within spitting distance. We rushed past the grandstands at 165 m.p.h. I was barely aware that a cheer was building for the under- dog. Instead, the barest sideways glimpse caught the bronzed boy, waving with a frenzy that spurred me on even more. His mouth was open, screaming. Gone! I slip-streamed Jeffries right up to the end of the main straight. It was now or nothing, but dare I try to pass him. I braked sooner than Jeffries, but only by a fraction of second. If there was one thing Bobby knew it was brakes, and mine were the best on the track. I took a wider line than normal, to the other side of Jeffries, cutting it close to the rail before steering in tight. It was something only a fool would do, or someone who know his car would do what it was supposed to. As we came through the center of the turn, the gap between us narrowed to inches. He was leaving me no room and he knew it, and he was still a half-length in front of me. "Fuck you, mother-fucker," I swore loudly. He had closed me out of the passing maneuver even before I was halfway through the turn. As one of the supposedly slower cars I did not warrant a cockpit camera, but those next seconds would have shown the most exciting action of the day. My inside wheels grazed the rail and the car bounced away. I corrected, not too much, just enough, lost a little momentum, kept going. Foot all the way to the floor, engine bellowing, pulling closer, slamming through the gears, finding a gap. As he finished the turn and started down the short straight, I closed up again. I was finding horsepower through prayer. Then, looking sideways, seeing him next to me. Neck and neck. Fucking Hell! Jeffries and I were going side by side. I crept ahead then lost it when I upped a gear, picked it up again under brakes. Through the s-bends, never more than a yard or two between us. Lap after lap we stayed like that, nose to tail like two dogs, like I was sniffing his ass, or had my knot stuck up a bitch. In a way, I was joined to him. I passed him a half- dozen times, and he passed me in return. I was a lap behind, yet as the field spread out, I picked up places running in Jeffries' suction. One place after another, from the rear of the field to the middle, from twenty-eighth to twelfth with seven laps still to go, then tenth place, then count-down. Picking up one place every lap. Passing big-budget drivers who were still wet behind the ears. During the last lap, there was a dull roar outside the closed world of my cockpit. People were standing up, waving, screaming, cheering Jeffries onto his victory. I was next to him, then slightly in front as we came around the last corner. Both flat out-winding every precious horsepower from our straining engines. There was no red-line. Engines reaching a banshee scream. Pushing harder and harder until there was no more to give and the checkered flag jerked furiously. Was it over? I was shaking, my hands sweating and sore from the tension of holding the wheel. I changed gear, missed my timing, dropped back a few lengths until I realized that the race was not over for me, not yet. I still had the last lap to go because I had crossed the finish line ahead of Jeffries. So, needing a cold beer so bad that it hurt, I kept on. Running hard and fast, with the fuel gauge getting awfully, scary close to empty, and knowing all the time that every car I passed might mean one more place for me. Two more cars went by. Had I passed one of them already? Number 37? An all black bastard with a cigarette sponsor. Back into the curves, swinging low, clipping the rippled edge with my tires. Hard on the accelerator. Back up through the gears. Shaking now as I came down the straight. Glimpsing the flag, no longer waving but held straight out and waiting for me. Backing off for the second last time. Changing hands. trembling. My throat was parched. I needed to go to the bathroom, badly. My ears were ringing. The roar was getting louder. The smell of something burning. Electrical? No, oil, or rubber. Temperature way too high. Slowing down. Make the turn into the pits. The engine idling roughly. Smoke the color of blue ice belching from under the hood. Then, Bobbie's reddened face was at the side window, reach- ing in, unfastening my harness, and screaming in my head. "Fantastic! Fuckin' fantastic! Man, you was fuckin' incredi- ble, Terry!" I was aware of several dozen people in the pits who weren't there the last time I stopped. But he was there, my track-rat boy. He stood back from the rest, yet he stood out like a brilliant diamond. He looked like something out of a dream, a very beautiful dream, the kind of dream you have once and never forget because you know it will never happen again. His dirty-blond hair glis- tened in the sun, his rat's tail blowing in the breeze. He raised his arm in a salute, lifting his shirt halfway up his slim muscled belly to reveal Florida sun-tanned skin that was the same treacle color of virgin 20-W-50 engine-oil. Then, he smiled and waved. The gesture went right through my consciousness until all I think about was him. 'Drop-dead gor- geous and pretty darned sexy'. That was him! I climbed out onto unsteady legs. I waved back at him, barely aware that a camera was flashing again and again. My shirt was sticking to the sweat on my back. I needed a shower, but even more than a shower, I needed to use the bathroom. From the corner of my eye I saw two track- reporters closing in, one with the camera, the other with a micro- phone. I wondered why they were there. There was a man with a very large video camera balanced on his shoulder. "Fuckin' hell!" I said softly as I lifted my helmet off and passed it to Bobbie. "Not wrong, Terry. You're a fuckin' hero!" "Huh? What? Who? Me? What the hell are you goin' on about?" "You, Terry! For Christ sakes, you might have been playin' tail games with Jeffries out there, but you just set a new track record." "Huh? What the hell are ya talkin' 'bout, Bobbie?" "You showed Jeffries, Terry. You just clipped a tenth off-a his old record. You showed that little fucker in the Chevy! You pulled a 196 and a bit on the next to last lap. You got a 146.6 average." "I did?" "She-e-e-e-e-t! Didn't you see the crowd go wild? They were screamin' 'go Atkins'. You kept pullin' past cars so fast I lost track of where you were." "How did I finish?" I mumbled in exhaustion. I don't know why, but at that moment all I wanted to do was to get out of the pits, away from the limelight, away from the people who had gathered around me clamoring for interviews. There were even two track wenches giving me the 'look'. If I wanted to get laid, all I had to do was tell one or both of them when and where to meet me. They were better looking than any Saturday-night hooker. If I liked women I would have needed a box of rubbers. Instead, I looked for the boy whose name I still did not know. I spotted him by the back fence. Our eyes met over forty feet, finding a pathway through the milling crowd, until they locked together. He was still smiling, even shaking slightly like it was all too much for him. His eyes blinked several times and his hand lifted up. He was crying, crying because he was so happy. Damn! More than anything, I needed to be with him. I had an urge to hug him that was stronger than anything I had ever felt. I tried to move forward, but it was impossible to go more than a few inches. His hand lifted higher until I could see his three fingers extended. Three! Three inches! I was surprised it was that big. If I was taking bets, I would have lost my shirt and pants with a less-than-three-inch maximum. "Huh? You mean you don't fuckin' know? You finished in third, Terry! Ole '69' come in third! A fuckin', incredible third!" "Huh? Third? " "Are you okay, Terry? Terry?" I shook my head dulledly. He was leaving. I could see his back. Small, skinny back with a rat's tail hanging down his neck. I wanted to call him back. I wanted him to participate in my moment of glory. I wanted to share my first triumph in two years with him. I had done it for him. Only for him. I looked at Bobbie blankly, still not understanding. "Third?" I asked absently. Bobbie nodded energetically. "Yup! You did it, Terry. Third. You were pushing so hard I thought you were gonna blow the fuckin' engine. From the looks of the smoke, you probably did." "It was stinking pretty bad on the last lap. Gotta be burnin' oil. Maybe I ruined it?" "Who gives a shit! It was ready for the scrap heap anyhow. Them hoses is just part of the problem, Terry. We got number threes in the pots with oversize rings. It was just about done in. There ain't no room left for a rebuild." "Hell! Well that's fuckin' it then. I can't afford a new block." "The hell you can't. You just made a hundred grand, you ass- hole," Bobbie laughed. "I did?" "Third place, remember. Coming in third pays about seventy. Throw in the lap record and it oughta round out to a hundred grand, Terry. Maybe you'll even get some sponsors out of it as well." I started to laugh. Yet, even as the full meaning of what had happened began to sink in, I was looking for him. I saw his back, that was all. He was even further away. Just his back and the num- ber '69' plastered boldly across his tee shirt, and the rat's tail hanging below his shoulders. I stopped laughing, started to push through the crowd, stepped out of the reach of the reporter's microphone. I felt Bobbie's hand grasp my shoulder, heard his voice asking what the problem was, shook my head. "Hey Terry, you cain't leave man. Not now! It's too important!" "I gotta go, Bobbie. I'll be right back." "You cain't leave, Terry. They want to do a spot on you for the national news. You made the big time out there today, Terry. You gotta new record to talk about. Don't blow it." "It'll just take a minute or two, that's all. I just gotta talk to someone for a moment," I said angrily. Bobbie shrugged. "If you're lookin' for Ty, he'll be back later." "Ty?" "You know, Ty! Geez, what planet are you on. He's probably your biggest fan, Terry. He was cheering like he knew you were gonna win. I never seen anyone so wound up when you were chasin' Jeffries's ass." "You mean the kid who was here when I came in earlier?" "Yeah, him. Ty's the kid who was hanging around `bout then. I thought you knew him." "The little blond-headed boy?" "He's the only one 'round here dumb enough to wear your num- ber," Bobbie guffawed, "and not get the '69' joke." There was no sign of Ty as I scanned the pits again. Of course, with the large crowd that had gathered and was milling around, it was difficult to see anything besides people. I wanted to see him again, even a glimpse would be enough. Of course, a glimpse would not be enough. A glimpse of an angel would never be enough for me, but at that moment all I wanted to do was feast my eyes on him once more. I wanted to tell him that I had done my best to win, but there was simply no way I could make up the dis- tance after the unscheduled pit stop. "He looks a mite like my sister's kid, Joel, only a helluva lot cuter. He was hanging around here till a minute ago." I looked at Bobbie uncertainly. He smiled slightly and then nudged me towards the reporters and the television camera. The interview seemed to last forever, but in reality took less than five minutes. I was never very good at presenting myself. I was reluctant to say what accounted for the sudden burst of perfor- mance from '69'. It was all the reporter could do not to burst out laughing when we talked about '69' and setting a new lap record. All I could say was that the Pontiac finally came through when I needed it most. I tried to introduce the members of the pit crew. Most of them hung back sheepishly. Like me, they were not used to being in the limelight. Bobbie mumbled a few words about how use- ful the third-prize money would be, and how the sponsors should take a look at some of the other teams. Then, the interview was over. The crowd dissipated quickly, vanishing back to wherever they had come from almost as soon as the reporters were gone. I stood there, dry throated, still needing a 'piss', suddenly very tired. I glanced at Bobbie. "Thanks, Bobbie. I owe you," I said simply. "Sure." He started to walk towards the car. He turned around and smiled. "Ty said he'll be back 'round five, Terry," he added as an afterthought. "Assumin' yer still around." "Thanks again." I scanned the area, still looking for him. "It's cool. You better get cleaned up and get your ass over to the 'circle'. We need that fuckin' check more than you need to get laid by some cute little track rat." My mouth dropped open as Bobbie began to walk to the other side of the car, giving instructions to Trevor and Pete about cleaning up and putting the equipment away as he went. It was impossible that he meant it the way it sounded. Not that I would have any objection to having sex with Ty, or any boy for that matter, if the opportunity ever arose. It would be a lie to say otherwise. I was only human. Still, I was shocked that he would openly acknowledge the possibility to me. Carrying my hel- met, I headed off towards the grandstand, still looking for Ty whatever-his-last-name-was.